


How We Make Our Mayhem

by caitfair24



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Humour, Mild Language, Mild Suggestiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: Clint wants to start a prank war. Luckily for you, Bucky has a strategy. Written for @itsbuckysworld's Hello Spring Writing Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt was "Are you in?"





	How We Make Our Mayhem

“A prank war?” Steve repeats dully. “A _prank war_?” 

Clint nods, looking to you for reaffirmation, but you just can’t bring yourself to give it. Ordinarily, his ridiculousness treads a careful line this side of endearing, but right now, you’re just bewildered. 

You’re covered in enemy blood and he wants to plan a _prank war_?

“Just on civvie time,” he adds. “Not on missions.”

Natasha flexes her fingers, ensuring none are broken -- quite unlike the half-dozen Hydra goons scattered on the cool tiles just down the hall. “It’s actually not the worst idea he’s ever had.”

“You see?” Clint looks positively triumphant. 

Time for a quick meeting of the coalition for reason; you look around for Barnes, spotting a glint of silver from the corner of your eye. If there was ever a man skilled at shutting shit down, it was him. “You hearing this, Sarge?” you ask, wiping a little at a particularly thick splash of blood on the cuff of your suit. “What do you think about a prank war?”

A cold blue gaze finds Barton right away, knowing that, of all present, he’s _certainly_  the most likely to come up with this kind of suggestion -- particularly in the heat of an active mission. “We need to go,” Barnes says, brushing past you on his way towards the main doors. “Let’s move.”

He moves so fast, he doesn’t see the little shiver and half-smile that bursts on your lips as he touches you -- however briefly. 

But someone does. 

* * *

 

Med bay. Shower. Fresh sweats and dinner, something frozen and salty dredged up from the back of the freezer. 

And a beer. 

Thank God. 

You tip the bottle up to your lips, trying to saw through an ample chunk of what might be chicken, or maybe beef -- or hell, it could be venison for all you know. It doesn't matter. After a mission, you crave protein, heat. Comfort food. Maybe there’s some leftover pasta...

“Hey.” 

Barnes is soft and damp from his own shower, long hair gathered into an endearing bun, and you swallow hard at the scent of him on the air -- fresh body wash and fresher laundry. 

“H-hi,” you mumble, coughing a little on the beer. “How are you?”

You wince; Barnes isn’t exactly a conversationalist. The only reason he does offer greetings when he enters a room you’re in is, essentially, because one time he didn't and you screamed the whole compound down when you turned to see him rummaging through the snack cupboard. 

He nods, reaching for a coffee mug high on the shelf. A chipped one -- plain, nondescript, distinguishable only for that tiny flaw. “So,” he says, sliding the cup under the dispenser. “Barton’s plan.” 

_The prank war_. 

“Yeah.” You find three second’s reprieve in a sip of your beer. “Barton’s plan.” 

His movements are precise, soldierly. When the machine is done, he turns to you with the mug already pressed to his mouth, half of his face concealed by china and steam. “Could be fun.” 

Now, let’s pause. 

Your entire life -- truly -- you’ve wanted to have one of those moments. You know, when somebody says something either so ludicrous or so utterly out of character that you can’t help but just forcefully eject whatever liquid is currently in your mouth, facilitating a dramatic spray that neatly encapsulates the full breadth and depth of the shock in a neat, humorous (if messy) package? 

Two potential stumbling blocks to the realization of this dream: 

(a) The need for absolutely _perfect_  timing. Bottle or cup to your lips (preferably a cool drink; the prospect of coffee or tea treads too closely on the border of horrifying); response or question or statement by the other participant just queued up...then dropped...then spray. _Timing is key_. 

(b) Navigation. You’ve got to have the liquid, whatever it is, in your mouth. Preferably cradled somewhere in the vicinity of the seam of your lips. If you’ve initiated the swallowing process already, you run the risk of Sprite through your nose which is _actual_ torture (and you should know; you took that training course when SHIELD was still playing dress-up). 

However, when the stars align just so, these impediments become mere enhancements. 

It’s beautiful. 

Your moment. 

A sip of beer, not a second old. Bucky Barnes admitting that a prank war designed by Clint Barton could be fun. 

You’re a fountain, carved from pride and joy. The spray arcs wide, magically avoiding both Barnes’ face and your shirt. He watches it go with a cool detachment, levelling a blank look in your direction. “Sorry,” you mutter, wiping self-consciously at your mouth. And chin. And nose. And cheeks. “So, um, ‘could be fun?’”

He nods sharply, just once. “Yeah. I mean -- it’s just for downtime, right? And we’d have the element of surprise, because they all think _we_ think it’s bullshit.” 

“True.” You reach for a napkin and some composure. “Wait -- ‘we?’”

Barnes flinches. Visibly flinches, and you feel a flash of guilt. You’ve always been keenly cognizant of just how much he’s been through -- you've read the files; you’ve heard him in the throes of dark nightmares. 

And the wounded, haunted look that flares, even briefly, in his gaze absolutely sours your stomach. 

“I, uh...well, you know Barton and Romanoff will work together. And Steve and Sam think I’m not interested.” He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze. “I thought...maybe, if you wanted, we could -- we could...” Barnes heaves a deep sigh, then shakes his head. “Never mind. Just forget it.” 

There’s a moment. A moment pregnant with something you can’t quite put your finger on, but it tingles on your skin and brings a flush to your cheeks, usurping the faint guilt. 

You can’t deny...you probably shouldn’t even bother trying...but Barnes _is_ attractive -- magnetic, even. Not merely in a physical sense; your awareness of his strength, his quiet, persistent progress to a lighter soul, is inspiring. He’s the purest definition of fortitude. Of hope. And when you’re around him, when those blue eyes find yours -- you feel it, too. You can almost bask in it. 

And now, for the first time, you’re basking in something else. A more tender, simple hope -- a desire for acceptance, for _fun_. He was a normal man once; a boy. Someone who could laugh at the prospect of a few days of harmless pranks. 

He was holding out his hand, to you. With no preamble, no precedent beyond a fieldwork association. A handful of missions together. Awkward Thursday morning training sessions. 

A childish crush that simmers on your lips. 

But you let it curl into a smile now, a smile belying the thudding of your heart, the butterflies in your stomach. 

And you reach out a hand to grasp his, shaking on a crooked-grin pledge to give them hell. 

* * *

_**Day One** _

A quiet Saturday. A late start for everyone -- except you and Barnes. Some time down in the lab, concocting a simple recipe. 

In the kitchen, charming pranks unfold. Clint has covered the opening of the orange juice jug with plastic wrap. Nat laughs warmly at the stove, serving up a rainbow of eggs -- all dyed with food colouring, all inevitably disgusting. 

Steve and Sam have worked together to reorganize every single cupboard and drawer -- so that when you reach for a coffee mug, you pull out a box of cereal. The two of them chuckle good-naturedly as you sneak a glance over at Barnes. A glance heavy with mischief, with a darker kind of glee than you’ve felt before -- instantly gratified by a slight softening of his face, a yielding to the fun. 

The explosion, when it occurs, is small but mighty -- certainly not enough to trigger, certainly not enough to singe anyone’s eyebrows -- but every single one of them jumps just the same. 

You can’t help it; laughter spills from you, bright as jewels. And Barnes? Barnes just grins. 

* * *

_**Day Two** _

Your clothes are missing. Every single item has been taken from your drawers, your closet. A carefully curated collection of plain t-shirts and serviceable jeans. You wander the residential halls of the compound in elephant pyjamas, hair crushed from sleep and eyes bleary with the oppression of the early morning. 

Natasha and Clint are faring no better; someone has taken the coffee. Every single pod; every imported bag. 

“Hey,” says Barnes, jerking his head towards the window overlooking the sprawling lawn. For the briefest moment, you’re confused -- more so when he gently grasps your wrist and tugs you closer, pointing at a chain of colour snaking across the length of the lawn. Clothes. Everyone’s clothes. Arranged in distinctive heaps, all whirling in two concentric circles. 

He leads the way out, grumbling the entire time as he picks out hoodies and sweats, a tac suit; baseball caps and that damn Henley. Steve and Sam join you, equally as miffed.

Barnes’ metal hand brushes yours as he, wordlessly, hands over a t-shirt. Like most of yours, it’s plain, designed to serve you both in the gym and around the compound -- nothing fancy. And yet, his touch, his tiny thoughtfulness, sends heat snaking up your spine and a tremulous rise to your lips. 

But he mistakes your expression for eagerness. “Want to move the plan up?” he murmurs, stepping closer under pretence of reaching for a pair of socks. 

Breathless, incapable of forming a complete thought, you nod. 

A violent water balloon attack commences promptly at 1100 hours. 

* * *

_**Day Three** _

There’s something brewing in the gym. Something more than the slime you’ve cued up to seep from each of their personal lockers. Or the green dye (perfectly harmless, nothing to worry about) sprinkled on the inside of every shower-head in the mens’ room. 

Once again, the others have chosen harmless pranks. Toilet paper restrained with zip ties; salt in the sugar shaker. Cute. Charming. 

But then Natasha emerges with her hands and shoes dripping with sparkling pink slime; Sam’s curses and Steve’s exasperated groan echoes along the smooth walls of the washroom, reverberating even into the gym beyond. 

You and Bucky -- because Bucky he’s become, in just three days of late-night plotting and devilish merriment -- sit together on a mat, sides stitched with laughter, eyes shining with delight. Skin soaked with sweat and mirth.

There’s an ease to his company now that had never existed before. He seeks you out; together, on the small couch in your room, you’d kept a midnight vigil the night before, mixing the slime together from some kids’ website. Bucky had tipped in just a little too much glitter; you’d made him a coffee to push through the painstaking task of adding the dye to each shower. 

“Thanks,” he’d said, leaving you to wonder just how one word could hold so much warmth. 

But there’s mutiny on the air now, and an alliance building in the shadows. 

* * *

_**Day Four** _

You wake on the heels of a dream, a dream that seals a smile to your lips despite the rain outside -- already, a wrinkle in today’s plan of attack. 

Oh, darn -- you’ll have to meet with Bucky to reevaluate. _Such_ an inconvenience. 

You slip into something a little prettier than you’re used to, and jeans that haven’t yet seen anything more intense than a quiet, anonymous stroll through the local mall. A bracelet that tinkles and shines at your wrist; a swipe of colour on your eyes. 

It’s a soft advance, but it’s one all the same. The past few days have left you positively tangled, bewildered, hopeful. Bucky has opened and lightened in your presence -- laughing at your jokes, and the pranks. Eagerly comparing notes and spending extra time with you beyond debriefings. 

He’d stayed for a movie last night. 

An actual movie. Two hours and twenty-minutes of the dumbest, most raucous comedy you could find. Curled up on your couch, metal arm stretched over the back of it, fingers  _almost_ brushing your shoulder. Looking far too big to be allowed. Popcorn settling in the ridges of his rumpled t-shirt. The scratching of his hand against his stubbled jaw, deafening in the dark, as he tried to figure out some of the more modern references. 

“Night, Y/n,” had been his parting shot. God, poetry couldn’t compare. 

Hungry, you head for the kitchen, only to be interrupted by the chime of a text coming through -- from Nat. 

**_Meet me in the gym? Got to show you this._ **

There’s nothing suspicious in that, but you roll your eyes -- likely, this is Natasha and Clint’s prank of the day. Maybe they’ve geared up some confetti to fall when you enter the training room? 

Oh, the horror. 

It’s empty when you enter, the morning not yet having beckoned enough Avengers or agents out from their beds. No sign of Nat. 

Until a leg flashes in your periphery, and you’re forced to bend and duck. 

Swivel. 

Bring up your own. 

A kick to the gut -- not enough to bruise, but certainly enough to steal your breath for a moment. 

The mat tastes of lemon cleaner. 

Natasha’s arms tug you back up, and you dance. No catsuits, no weapons, no sweat-wicking training clothes -- this is a fight of silk pyjamas and blue jeans, a clash of bare feet warm with sleep, and polka-dotted Keds. You laugh when she catches you on the jaw; she smiles with the press of your hands against her back. 

“Not so fast, sweets,” she purrs. And she twists in your grip, a sudden surge of strength stealing your fleeting sense of victory. 

And then a hard shove, a curtain of black, and a firm wall -- a wall that smells of coffee and a cologne that’s so familiar, you’re conditioned to blush when you smell it. 

* * *

“Who got you?” Bucky asks dully, steadying you with two hands. “Romanoff?”

You nod, grateful that he’s switched on the overhead lights. 

The space is small, utilitarian. An anonymous bathroom: toilet, sink, and tiny shower -- made for agents from away, overflow for the main locker rooms. Situated halfway between the gym and the entrance. It’s a place to duck into quickly. Not made for lingering. 

Let alone getting up close and personal with a beefy supersoldier. 

You blush at the adjective, even though he’s unaware. 

Bucky’s blue gaze scans the tiny space with the steadiness of a seasoned soldier, and the word  _reconnaissance_ bursts in your mind. It’s smart, taking it all in. 

Steve got him, he explains. Something about coming down to help measure a good height for a new punching bag. “Load of crap,” he grumbles, leaning between the toilet and the wall. “I can’t believe this.” 

“It’s payback,” you muse, leaning down to sniff the apple cinnamon air freshener. It smells more like sweat and formaldehyde to you, but who are you to judge? 

Your thumbs fly over the screen of your phone, an argument in tiny _clicks_. Natasha sends back a series of emojis, smirking and crying with laughter, admitting that they need a break, a day off from your torturous hijinks -- and that there are protein bars and a book of crosswords hidden under the sink. 

**_We’ll be in the kitchen, enjoying some peace and quiet. We’ll let you out after breakfast...maybe._ **

You blink. 

Admittedly, the prospect of an hour or two stuck here with Bucky isn’t the  _worst_ Tuesday morning you’ve ever had. 

Actually, the worst Tuesday morning you’ve ever had involved a Hydra base and a flat tire. 

If it weren’t for the tension in his shoulders, the twitch in his jaw, you might actually look at this as substantive evidence for a first date -- or second, if you counted the movie night. But his discomfort is evident, and responding empathy blooms in the soft mischief of your voice. 

Time for a distraction. 

“That vent up there” -- you point to a silvery frame tucked just above your heads, maybe eighteen inches across -- “what are the chances that leads to the kitchen?”

Bucky follows your finger, and you can see him weighing the likelihood, mentally tracing the blueprint of this floor. “Pretty good, actually,” he says. “I’d bet on it. Why?”

You explain between blushes and stumbled syllables. Natasha’s gloating text, her assurance that they’d all be in the kitchen for a while. 

It’s random. It’s unprofessional. It’s a risk to these fledgling feelings -- but you do it anyways. Because you made a pact, didn’t you? Your hand in his. 

“Are you in?” 

Much to your surprise, Bucky nods. 

He loosens the panel, standing on the toilet; and begins the rouse. The rouse that has you both awkward and cagey, fumbling about the edges of some intimacy neither of you are ready for. 

But here you go. 

Bucky releases your name into the vent, strained velvet sliding down the length of it. He shrugs out of his hoodie, and you make sure the zipper hits the porcelain edge of the sink, falls in an audible thump. “Don't forget the jeans, babe,” you coo, and he bites back a smile. 

You press soft but noisy kisses to the skin of your own arm, and he to his flesh one. Laughter threatens your composure, even as he tugs you up to join him at the vent. This time, _you_ slip _his_ name, coupled with a few sugary endearments, into the silvery tunnel beyond. 

The shower runs as your playacting continues, and God, it’s Oscar-worthy. Heat rises in his cheeks, dusting even the skin beneath the encroaching growth of his dark beard with pink. He supports you at the vent, hands gripping your waist, and your bracelet clinks agains his arm. 

More murmurs of his name; “dolls” and “sweethearts” and “honeys” -- the man is dripping poetry. 

All the while, you exchange shy grins, mouthed apologies for going too far, for chewing the scenery a little too much. 

Finally -- a little audience participation. 

A strangled bellow from Clint; a cascade of demanding texts that send your phones singing. “ENOUGH!” he repeats. “ENOUGH! Cover up; I’m letting you out!” 

When he wrenches open the door, the two of you are sitting quietly -- you on the counter, chewing on a peanut butter protein bar; Bucky propped up against the edge of the shower, crossword book in hand, clothes intact, scratching his chin for a five letter synonym for pugilist. “ _Boxer_ ,” you suggest, smiling at the mortified intruder, peeking out uncertainly through the grate of his own fingers. You hold up the bar. “Wanna bite, Barton?” 

He shakes his head furiously, looking rapidly from you to Bucky -- not a hair out of place, not damp from the shower, which has now been turned off. In fact, there’s nothing to indicate _any_  real evidence of what the vent may have suggested. 

You shrug, toss the bar to Bucky and slide to your feet. “To the victor, the spoils,” you say brightly, extending a hand down to pull him up. “Come on, Barnes -- let’s get some real breakfast.” 

Sam remains, staring at the tidy washroom, chest heaving with mingled horror and confusion. 

“You know, I probably could’ve broken down that door.” Bucky shoves his hands into his pockets as you approach the kitchen. 

_God_. 

“Um, sorry,” you say weakly, suddenly curious if Stark has got any transfers to Antarctica going. You’ve always liked penguins, after all -- 

Bucky pauses at the entryway, offering just a red-cheeked, cursory glance over to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, gathered around the long, glossy table featuring a gallery of discordant, but respective expressions: shock, vague revulsion, and -- this intrigues you -- a little knowing grin. From Steve. 

“Don’t be.” His eyes flick back to yours, pinning you with ice and heat and amusement, all in one. “It was -- uh, it was fun.” 

Elation erupts deep in your stomach, rocketing through your veins like liquor, and -- fittingly -- you give him a drunken grin. “Oh, yeah?”

“We won, didn’t we?”

Steve interrupts, slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, a chuckle warm and welcome from his lips. “Yeah, you did,” he says, turning around to exchange a little triumphant grin with Natasha, who’s approached quietly, and smirking. “But only because of _our_ plan.” 

With a twist, Bucky extricates himself from Steve’s embrace, stepping forward to stand at your side, facing Steve and Nat with you. “What you mean, Rogers?” you snap. “What plan?”

Natasha laughs and levels you an incredulous stare. “Come on, you can’t really think you guys were being that subtle, can you?”

Your cheeks are warm. Your cheeks are warm _again_  -- God, you really hope this is a fever coming on. 

Bucky’s faring no better, hands still tucked in his pockets, rocking a little on his feet now. “I, uh...” 

“Look” -- Sam leans against the kitchen doorway with a bored expression -- “this was cute and all, but you’re telling me neither of you clued into the fact that this was just an elaborate team-building exercise clearly intended to pair the two of you together and end that endless little ‘will we, won’t we’ thing you had going on? And I mean, God, you guys took it _way_  too seriously.” 

He points at Bucky. “You want me to believe, Barnes, that you request her on missions just because she’s good with a gun?”

Bucky looks down at his sneakers, apparently the most interesting thing in the room. 

“And Y/n” -- Sam fixes a steely gaze on your flushed face -- “are _you_  telling me that there’s a platonic explanation for you losing control of the English language when he’s around, or the way you walk into fridges if you don’t know he’s in the room when you walk in after a workout?” 

“That was _one_  time --” 

Steve grabs Sam by the shoulders, steering him away from you and Bucky and down the hall. “All right, that’s our cue. There’s more waffles on the counter -- just...” He stops and grins at a silent, shocked Bucky, weighing his words carefully. “Just talk. Have some breakfast together. We’ll leave you alone.” 

You wonder if it’s possible for the smooth marble under your feet to swallow you up. You can’t look at him, can’t talk to him, and definitely can’t enjoy waffles with him after this, you think rapidly, willing your heart to stop beating so fast. You can’t -- you won’t -- there’s no way -- he’s _Bucky Barnes_  -- 

A scarlet fingernail tips up your chin, guiding you to face Bucky -- face dusted pink; eyes a little glassy and dazed; just a few inches away. He meets your gaze steadily, intently. Meaningfully. 

What do you say? How do you say it? 

Maybe there’s nothing to say yet. 

Or maybe Natasha can say it for you. 

The shared gaze breaks with a parting shot, one last little jibe that Nat just can’t resist. “You know,” she says over her shoulder, striding away, leaving you and Bucky a little staggered, a little unsure of where to go next (although waffles are definitely in the plan). “For two highly-trained spies, fighters, whatever -- you’re both pretty oblivious. Not just with each other; neither of you thought to test the door? We didn’t lock it.” 

And just like that, you realize you and Bucky _didn’t_  actually win the prank war. 

Damn. 


End file.
